


Guilt Tripping

by kriadydragon



Category: White Collar
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-04
Updated: 2011-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-15 09:55:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/159620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kriadydragon/pseuds/kriadydragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A part of Peter tells him he shouldn't feel bad, but he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guilt Tripping

There was a part of Peter's Brain – lizard brain, hind brain, frontal lobe, id, whatever some shrink somewhere would call it – that believed itself the center of logic's universe, the storage facility of rules and regulations, cans and cannots, rights and wrongs; a part of his brain that was telling him in a robotic voice and with emotionless certainty that he was not supposed to be feeling concern; not for Neal.

Neal was a criminal. Neal was the man who had given, and still gave, Peter never ending grief. Neal was a pain in the ass. Ergo, feeling concern for Neal did not compute.

And had Neal's current situation been his own fault, then Peter would have to agree. But this time, for once, it wasn't Neal's fault. That small part of Peter's brain was wrong – he had every damn right to feel concerned. He stood there, the epicenter of chaos, like a sun and the cops, cars, ambulances and scattered wreckage the planets, but missing one “planet” in particular. One pain-in-the-ass planet who Peter sometimes felt like _he_ revolved around.

Every. Damn. Right. Pain in the ass or not.

Peter moved from the center, just a fraction forward, enough to see the front of the car Neal had been forced into. It was currently around a tree. Another step and he saw a body bag being zipped up, the face indistinct but, to Peter's relief, the hair too light to be Neal's. Another step, he saw the face of a man being loaded into an ambulance – still not Neal.

Another step, another, then a cluster of cops parted and, lo and behold, there sat bane of Peter's existence. He was on the curb, shirt untucked, one arm draped over his knee, the other propped up by the elbow while holding an icepack to his face. Two medics, one male and one female, hovered around him, The woman to the side listening to Neal's chest with a stethoscope and the guy crouching behind, doing something that required the back of Neal's shirt to be out of the way.

Peter asked while he still had four feet of distance between them, “Neal, are you all right?”

Neal looked up without lifting his face from the ice-pack, smiled tightly and gave Peter the thumbs up. “Peachy. Although I have some serious complaints about the efficiency of your code words. It was 'a rough two hours to get here' – that was code for 'get me the hell out,' right?”

Peter grimaced, feeling a little like he'd been kicked in the stomach. Explanation after explanation popped into his head, because that was the usual song and dance – I'm sorry, Neal, but sometimes crap happens. In this case, the agent in charge, Agent Stine, had procrastinated... among other things. He'd said to wait, and because they'd waited, Neal had been bundled into the car currently frenching the tree.

And Peter was about to say as much, had his mouth opened and everything, when he looked at Neal's hand. It hung there limp over Neal's knee, fingers slightly curled, and it was shaking. Adrenaline, of course, and shock. It wasn't new; Peter had seen Neal shaken before, most of the time because Neal had been feeling in a covert mood, leaving Peter out of the loop, doing things his own way and forcing Peter to save his ass... again and again and again.

But because this time it _wasn't_ Neal's fault, it made Peter uncomfortable. It broadened his view, taking him beyond Neal's pretense and exposing what was, in fact, very fragile self control. The shakes didn't stop at Neal's hands, it vibrated sporadically in his shoulders. He was rigid, pale and skittish. After Neal had stated his flippant piece, his gaze dropped back to the ground, staring. Just staring.

Not all that removed from how he'd looked seconds after Kate's plane had exploded, minus the dropping to his knees and gagging, unless Peter had arrived too late to witness it. But unlike then, Neal was at least trying to stay in control. Then, it had been the first time Peter had ever seen Neal so completely and utterly frail.

Now, it made Peter want to kick Stine's ass for being so stupid. Stine had known. He'd known, damn it, that they had sent Neal in undercover as a man about to be double-crossed by the people being investigated. The bastard knew there had been a chance Neal would have been killed. He'd said as much, apologizing without a lick of sincerity, because Neal was a tool to be used to the fullest extent.

Peter stepped closer, and was taken aback by the way it made Neal flinch.

“I'm sorry,” he set, dropping the excuses. He leaned forward just enough to see what it was the male medic was so intent on. He grimaced in disgust at the freely bleeding nine inch gash down Neal's shoulder blade currently being swabbed clean.

“I am really, really--” Peter began, but stopped, because something didn't add up. He looked back to the car, the front end crushed, the back end perfectly fine – wind-shield, side windows – and surveillance reported that Neal had been shoved into the back seat.

Peter straightened, narrowing his eyes. “Neal.”

“Peter.”

“How did you cut your back?”

Neal's uncovered eye flitted from the ground to Peter, then to anywhere _but_ Peter. He shifted, straightening a little. “Does it really matter? Bad guys are caught; I'm not a smear on the pavement--”

Peter smiled bitterly. “Humor me.”

“I ran into something sharp,” Neal said, flippant. “It happens.”

Peter could actually feel the increase in his blood pressure. He clenched his fists, his smile starting to hurt. “Let me guess; something along the lines of a knife?”

Neal shrugged. “Possibly.”

“Damn it, Stine!”

Neal narrowed his eye at Peter in confusion. “Uh, unless I'm undercover without knowing then I'm pretty sure my name is still Neal.”

But Peter ignored him. “Details,” he said. “Now. How much is the car's fault and how much isn't?”

Knowing when he was cornered and, therefore, beat, Neal rolled his one eye with a sigh and moved the icepack away. The shiner was impressive, deep, dark, large and swelling his eye shut.

“Just this and the cut. I wasn't exactly being cooperative about being forced into a car at gunpoint. The knife thing was an accident. The guy climbing in behind me had a knife fetish and no patience.”

“Translation?”

Neal heaved another sigh. “He had the knife out while he was climbing in and pushing me into the middle seat at the same time. I'm pretty sure it was just a mistake. Although he did seem kind of happy about it afterward...”

Forget kicking Stine's ass; he was going to kill him.

“Everything else is from the car,” Neal said.

Weary of the pussy footing, Peter looked to the female medic. “And everything else would be...?”

“Mostly bruises,” she said, nonchalant. “Though we would like to keep him overnight for observation.”

“Not happening,” Neal stated.

“Yes, it is,” Peter snapped. Neal's shirt was opened just enough for Peter to see one hell of a bruise slanted across his chest. “Especially if you want pain killers. And, believe me, you _will_ want pain killers.” Bruises were a bitch unto themselves, but wrenched muscles would be joining the assault. Give it a couple of hours and Neal was going to feel like living-dead roadkill.

Looking to the medic, Peter said, “I'll make sure he gets there.”

Satisfied, the female medic nodded. The male medic taped a temporary bandage to Neal's back then both swiftly but efficiently cleaned up then headed out.

The moment they were out of the way, Peter leaned forward, taking Neal by the elbow. “Come on, the sooner we do this the sooner it's over.” He ended up taking most of Neal's weight when Neal swayed briefly with a startled, “Whoa!” When Neal's armed squirmed free of Peter's support, Peter compromised by keeping a hand on Neal's back, just in case. Neal's hand may have stopped shaking, but Peter could still feel minute tremors in the muscles of Neal's ribs, maybe from pain, maybe not.

“Seriously, you okay?” Peter had to ask.

“If I said fine, would you honestly believe me?” Neal replied.

Peter smiled. “No, not really.”

Which earned him an exaggerated look of hurt. “We've been working together for how long and you still don't trust me?” Neal faux pouted.

“Oh, I trust you. I trust you to be Neal Caffery. And I trust that you have enough common sense to do what's in your best interest.” He then said, soberly. “This shouldn't have happened. You shouldn't have been put into that kind of danger.”

Neal shrugged. “Could have been worse.”

“It was bad enough. You were almost killed.”

“Yeah, well... it's not like you made me go in. I volunteered.”

“Without getting the full story. Stine wasn't being honest with us.”

Neal grinned. “Then Stine can pick up the tab for my hospital bill. After the doctors run a few tests. You know, to make sure I don't hemorrhage or have cancer or anything. Can't be too careful.”

Peter grinned back, patting Neal's shoulder. “No. No you can't.”

The End


End file.
